


Third Hand News

by Waldo



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-09
Updated: 2005-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waldo/pseuds/Waldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the <i>Daedalus</i> only bringing news a few times every year, it can take a while to get bad news. That doesn't make it any easier to bear. Only the love of the living can do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Hand News

Elizabeth sat staring at the memo she’d been handed by Colonel Caldwell. It was one of four letters from home that, for one reason or another, couldn’t be tucked into the bundles and packages and boxes that got sent for each member of the expedition every time the Daedalus pulled into port.

She was a diplomat by training. Skilled in giving bad news a good face. There was absolutely no good face for this.

There was a tap on the doorframe and she looked up to see John Sheppard leaning on the frame, a question written on his face. “You okay?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Burdens of command,” she quasi-quoted him in response, knowing that there was no way he’d accept any kind of denial.

“Any particular burden you want to share?” John moved in and dropped into a seat across from her.

Elizabeth found herself creasing the memo over and over again in a nervous gesture. “Careful, or I’ll take you up on that,” she said.

John raised an eyebrow, but let Elizabeth choose to elaborate or not.

After a few minutes she handed over the memo.

John read it three times before sagging in his seat. “Aw, damn.”

&lt;{*}&gt;

Carson was surprised to see Dr. Carolyn Biro standing over his shoulder as he bound up a gash on a rather careless Marine.

“Ah, Carolyn, I didn’t think you were on until later this evening.”

“I wasn’t. But I’m going relieve you a bit early.” She looked unaccountably sad and Carson became extremely nervous.

“Why?”

Dr. Biro nodded towards the door of the infirmary. Colonel Sheppard was standing there looking even sadder than the other doctor.

“Come on, Carson,” he said quietly.

“Why? What’s going on?” A sense of panic was starting to take hold now.

John moved from the doorway to put a hand on Carson’s back, leading him to the door. “Come on,” he repeated.

Carson followed, willing the sense of dread and panic to subside long enough for him to follow John out of the infirmary and down the hall.

When they got to the door of Carson’s quarters, John ushered Carson in and told him to have a seat. He locked the door and took off his radio before sitting down next to him on the sofa. “Gimme your headset,” John said quietly.

Carson didn’t move, trying to understand what was going on.

John squeezed his hand. “It’s okay. I told Elizabeth where we’d be and that we’d be off our radios. We don’t need to be bothered right now.”

Carson’s panic grew as he handed it over. He was starting to shake with the anticipation of what he was about to hear. Part of him wanted to shake John until it spilled out, part of him wanted to run from the room, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. John was never this quiet, this reserved. And the fact that Carson had been dragged away in the middle of his shift meant that this was going to be capital-b Bad.

John took Carson’s hand and held it tightly. “Elizabeth was given four memos that the Air Force didn’t want just dumped into people’s mail bundles.” John shifted, clearly not sure how to say what he needed to. “One of them was for you.”

John held out the paper and Carson realized that John was trembling too. He took the paper John held out to him and unfolded it.

John sat and watched as Carson read the message over and then quietly folded it in half and nodded. After a few minutes he said quietly, “Thank you for bringing this to me yourself.”

John nodded and when Carson squeezed John’s hand, he squeezed back. They sat like that for a long while, neither moving. John wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d expected some sort of reaction. Tears or denial or something. Not this quiet acceptance. It was another five minutes before it occurred to John that this was what shock looked like.

“Carson, what can I do?” John asked, breaking the tense silence.

Carson shrugged, his voice raspy when he answered, “Nothing to be done.” He glanced over the letter again, pausing as he did some calculations in his head. “Funeral was last week. Of course, it had to have been a while ago,” he said as if it finally made sense. “For them to get a message on the Daedalus and then eighteen days for the Daedalus to get here…” Carson shook his head and finally pulled his hand away from John’s. Talking about it, even obliquely, was starting to cause him to unspool. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together at the back of his head.

John scooted closer, pulling the memo from between Carson’s fingers. He set it on the table and then wrapped his arm around Carson, pulling him in close. “I’m sorry.” When he noticed the tears hitting the floor between Carson’s feet, he shifted to get both arms around him. “I’m so sorry.”

Carson nodded and then finally pulled his hands down to wrap around John’s waist.

John pulled them up onto the couch, and he just snuggled him close until Carson’s breathing was steady again. At least for the moment. John had no illusions that this was the last of it, or even the worst.

When Carson sat up, John let him pull away. “Why don’t you go wash your face and I’ll see if I can dig up enough stuff in here for dinner. If not, I’ll run down and find us something in the mess.”

Carson smiled at him in gratitude. “Thank you, but I’m not hungry. But help yourself to whatever you can find.”

John squeezed Carson’s shoulder just as Carson moved to stand. “I won’t nag tonight, but I know how you get under stress. You have to take care of yourself. And if you don’t feel up to it, you need to let me, okay?”

Carson headed towards the small bathroom to wash up as John had suggested. “I will. And I appreciate you looking out for me. But right now… I just… I…”

John nodded. “It’s okay. I’ll see what I can find. Maybe once the food is in front of you you’ll change your mind.”

Carson doubted it, but he could see how badly John wanted to do something to help. “Alright, then. Thank you.”

John collapsed against the couch, running a hand over his face. This sucked so bad.

He heard the sink go on in the bathroom and knew that Carson was following directions, which was pretty much what Carson did in a crisis that was anything other than medical. John realized that the kindest thing he could do for a while was stick around and make all the mundane little decisions that might seem to be a little overwhelming for him now.

John pulled himself off the couch and began rooting through the small cabinet in the corner where Carson had put a small table, making a kitchenette area. He found some macaroni and a small hot plate. He’d get some water when Carson got out of the bathroom and make them some macaroni and cheese. Hopefully he’d be able to persuade Carson to eat a little bit of it and it would be bland enough not to upset a potentially volatile stomach.

When the door whooshed open, John brought the one small pan he’d been able to find over to the bathroom to fill it. Carson looked at least as bad as he had when he’d gone in. John set the pan down and wrapped his arms around him again. He had no idea what to say. Couldn’t remember what everyone had said to him when he’d been where Carson was now, back when he’d been eight. What he could remember was that the words hadn’t meant anything even back then. No words would ever fix this. Not being alone would simply make it survivable. He kissed the top of Carson’s head. “I’m gonna make some macaroni. You want to lay down for a while?”

“I need to write some letters. Explain to some folks why I wasn’t at the funeral. I need to get them done before the Daedalus heads back out.”

John cursed himself for having to be the one to say it. “Carson…” He wasn’t sure how to be clear without being tactless.

“I know,” Carson said from where he’d sat at the small kitchenette table with a writing pad he’d procured from somewhere. “Security clearance and all that. You can read them when I’m done. But I have to explain to some folk why I wasn’t at the funeral. Need to let them know that I’ve gotten word. I’ll need someone to take care of the house, things like that.”

John hated that he had to read Carson’s personal mail, but the rules were that all outgoing communications had to be approved by either himself or Elizabeth. They hadn’t thought about it until Rodney had been able to get them all a few minutes of video-message to loved ones on Earth and Radek Zelenka had damn near exposed one of Earth’s biggest security secrets. It had been a quick and dirty lesson on how little civilians thought in terms of national security. Ford had told Elizabeth about Zelenka’s screw up and John had agreed with her about instituting a certain level of screening when it came to messages home.

Carson began to write while John finished dinner. John had the random thought that Carson had handwriting that was far too neat to belong to a doctor. John put a bowl of pasta and a glass of water next to him and Carson thanked him, but kept writing.

John sat across from him, eating his own dinner while Carson continued to write. He could tell when Carson would get stuck on making sure that he could say what he needed to, be truthful and not divulge any state secrets when his eyes glazed over and he began absently chewing on the end of his pen.

Carson ate a few bites of macaroni to be polite, but John happened to look up in time to see Carson grimace as he forced the slightly congealed noodles down. Food really was a bad idea, John realized. He didn’t comment when Carson pushed the bowl away and went back to his writing.

John cleaned up, and Carson kept writing. John wondered who all he was writing to and was somewhat curious how he’d explain his being away and unable to return. When Carson was still at it long after John had finished cleaning, he found a book on the bedstand and propped himself up on the pillows to read.

Several hours later, Carson stood and cracked his fingers and wrists. John winced in sympathy. He was old enough to remember filling out reports and requisitions on triplicate forms. Just thinking about it could give him retroactive hand-cramps.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

Carson nodded and dropped the pad on the bed. John took it and set it on the bedside table. “I’ll look at them tomorrow.” When Carson looked concerned, John tugged him down to sit next to him on the bed. “The Daedalus is here for three more days. I’ll be sure they go out.”

Carson just nodded.

John wrapped an arm around Carson’s waist. “You are going to let me stay tonight, right?” He couldn’t imagine Carson wanting to be alone, but grief could do strange things to people.

“I’d be very glad if you did,” Carson said quietly.

John sat up, setting the book back down. He realized he was about eighty pages into it and couldn’t name a single character in the damn thing. He hit the lights mentally and both he and Carson stripped down to their boxers and t-shirts before crawling under the covers.

John pulled Carson in close, and Carson settled his head on John’s shoulder. Never in his life had Carson been so grateful to have someone at his side. If he had any prayer of sleeping at all, it was in this man who was holding him and rubbing his back and not pushing or prying or asking if he was okay every time Carson sighed or shifted.

He figured there was some sort of irony in the fact that because John didn’t ask, that he wanted to talk. Needed someone to understand what he was feeling.

“She worried for me when I went down the road to get milk. When I told her I was going off to help the U.S. Air Force on a secret project I thought she was going to lock me in my room until I came to my senses.”

John laughed a little.

“For the first few months we were here, I began to wish she had.”

John smiled wryly in the dark. “You’ve gotten a lot better.”

“Maybe,” Carson conceded. “Maybe I’ve just gotten better at hiding it.”

John shook his head. “Nah. You’re toughing up. I always knew you would.”

Carson huffed a short laugh, then grew abruptly serious again. “The last time I saw Mother alive, she spent two hours trying to wrangle a promise out of me that it wouldn’t be the last time I saw her. That I wouldn’t be doing anything dangerous. That I’d come home again.” Tears started to choke his voice again.

“You’ll make it home,” John promised.

“But she won’t be there.”

When Carson started crying again, John simply put his arms around him and let him ride out the storm. And mentally he prepared himself for a long string of nights like this one. He just hoped he would find the right combination of words and silences to get them both through it.


End file.
